CHAPTER 24

OF HERMETRUDE: HER SELF-RESPECT: WHY SHE KILLED FIVE OF HER BONDMEN

That Hermetrude in all her great-souled nature had not one ounce of jealousy was a fact upon which, nowadays, she reflected with some insistence. The notable, and indeed the world-famous Queen of Pictland had no need to be jealous of a twopenny Princess of Deira, whom her own husband (as entire Britain knew and repeated with relish) had exposed to derision as the granddaughter of a stable groom. It was only that Hermetrude was accustomed to being loved by desperate persons who, finding in her the woman of all youth’s dreams, and a beauty beyond verbal description, were enslaved by passion; and who for the sake of her dear perfections sought out death smilingly. Because of Hermetrude, in dozens upon dozens of lands, and in all places where the brave loved nobly, men had put aside, as unvalued trifles, their wealth and their famousness and their broad kingdoms and even (as it was, of course, sad to recall) the clinging arms of their heartbroken wives, in exchange for bleak ruin, so bright and so fatal was the beauty of this virgin queen who had not—as everybody, with any good taste, noticed at once—her twin upon earth.

Very well, then! All that Hermetrude got from Wiglerus was a quiet sort of critical and half-negligent liking. She doubted if for her sake he would as much as postpone dinner. So his bland condescensions enraged her, even in the instant that she evoked them assiduously, the young Queen could not quite say why, except that this nimble, shrivelled, quizzical, ageing gentleman did (as people phrased it) have a way with him. Some day she would end by killing the Prince of Denmark, she was certain; she would have to do it, by and by, out of mere self-respect: and when that happened, it would all be the fault of that damned Alftruda. When you considered affairs rightly, it was Alftruda, and no other person, who had led the old pot-bellied popinjay into trifling with the peace of mind and even with the royal person of a virgin sovereign—or at any rate (the Queen corrected her meditations), of a practically virgin sovereign—in her own palace.

From such reflections Queen Hermetrude was roused by news that the King of Deira had become a suitor for her hand in marriage; and all pensiveness went away from her.

‘You bring good hearing,’ said Hermetrude. ‘I shall deal lovingly with the crowned stable boy, out of my consideration for his family. Let Sleep-Giver be sharpened.’

It was answered: ‘King Edric woos by proxy. He has sent as his proxy his son-in-law, the new King of Jutland.’

‘Select five of my bondmen—such as are a little past their work,’ said the Queen thriftily—‘and this afternoon we will sacrifice them to Odin; for the gods smile upon Pictland. And do you let Sleep-Giver be thrice sharpened, now that Alftruda’s husband and dear love is at hand to try conclusions with me.’

Hermetrude went out with flushed eagerness. She stayed only to put on a white kirtle figured with gold, and over it a scarlet cloak patterned richly with gold lace even down to the skirt. As befitted a maiden queen, she left unconfined her lovely, gleaming, but rather short, brown hair, which fell only to her shoulders; but about her forehead she placed a gold band inset with garnets. No living male creature except a lapidary, the Scottish Queen reflected, could ever distinguish between them and real rubies.

She came thus to destroy Hamlet; and upon seeing him, paused. Enraged Hermetrude did not speak at once, although her somewhat large mouth remained open. It was then a wonder to note how ferocity ebbed and gave way to quite another expression, because at her first glimpse of this burly blond giant, the Queen knew that her sword, Sleep-Giver, was not destined to subdue Hamlet.